


Unscratched Remix Mixtape.

by trickstered



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, M/M, Minor Eridan Ampora/Feferi Peixes, Minor Sollux Captor/Terezi Pyrope, Minor Terezi Pyrope/Vriska Serket, Multi, Power Imbalance, Rebellion, Toxic Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickstered/pseuds/trickstered
Summary: On the eve of his induction into adulthood, Karkat Vantas prepares to face his destiny. As it happens, it's not the destiny he anticipated.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Eridan Ampora/Karkat Vantas, Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam, Sollux Captor/Karkat Vantas, TBA - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 46





	1. PROLOGUE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ambitiously, I'm taking you on a wild ride of invasion, alien propaganda, and the incredible nonsense that is relevancy. 
> 
> Big thanks to my girlfriend for reading this prologue despite not understanding a single word, and to Shadow, who enables every single cursed idea I have. I'll be updating tags and warnings by the chapter, mostly on account of them probably changing significantly in Act 2. 
> 
> Anyway, without further adieu, here is the no-SBURB au that nobody asked for.

**0000 | PRESS PLAY**

What do you do at the end of all things?

In the vast expanse of space, there is not much to do. It goes without saying, of course, that space is real fucking boring after you have spent eons traversing it. The stars had lost their appeal millennia ago. The Empress had stopped being fascinated by their deaths and their births somewhere into her 500th sweep. Gas. They were all just fucking gas, and she had enough gassy fuckers on each of her colonies. 

The only excitement in space was the conquest. That had never gotten boring. Thousands of years on and making the galaxies bend at her heel had kept her pusher going. The Empress loved to conquer. She loved making lesser worlds bend the knee. She loved the adrenaline of seeing ugly looking aliens cower and piss themselves in fear. That was the shit. If she were allowed to do it, she would have done it for a billion years more. 

Fate had decided otherwise. In the early days of a new conquest, The Empress had felt The Call. The wailing screech of impending doom, stretching itself thin throughout the known galaxies to split her head wide fucking open. It meant doom was coming; it meant the end of days was approaching her people. If she had heard it, it meant that the end could already be happening. The Vast Glub was coming, and she was billions of light years away. 

She had left at once, her Helmsman racing through space until the point of breaking. She pushed Life into him every step of the way. Each time he tried to die, she pushed his sorry soul back into his lowblood body and screamed FASTER. The wretched wail had stopped somewhere along the way, and it only filled her with more dread. It filled her with more anger. What right did her traitorous lusus have to end her empire while she wasn’t even close enough to mourn it? What right did she have to destroy everything she had built without so much as an affectionate fucking consideration for her oldest daughter? So what if she didn’t call? Didn’t write? The extinction of their race hardly seemed fair.

She had spent most of the journey glued to the view-pane. The Helmsman was screaming as he pushed through the fabric of space; her drone-crew worked to repair the damage caused to the ship from the abuse. Along the way, her Subjugglation ships had caught up with her; violet and purple blooded run vessels that flanked her at every side. She ignored all communication requests. She drove the ship onward until the grey, green and pink hues of the Alternian home-world were in her sight. By her best guess, it had been at least a sweep of travel, maybe more. In her gut, she expected only ruin. The fact that the highbloods had lived long enough to catch up with her was nothing short of a miracle. She arrived Home, and expected to mourn it. 

What she found instead was the Grand Subjugglator Alpha in orbit. What she found was the distant sprinkling of lights. Hives, with power. She found life. She found, when she turned wild-eyed to her Helmsman, that he had fucking died again.

A message alert sounded. This one she answered. On screen was a hulking mass of wild black hair; a face of smeared paint and blood, horns too large for the screen, fangs too big for his ugly frowning mouth. He was a fucking mess. An absolute tragic wreck. The Empress did not look any better. “Bitchtits,” said the Grand Highblood, voice rough. He had been screaming, thought The Empress. “By what manner of fucking heresy have you brought down on us?” 

This fucking clown. “Yo,” said The Empress. “By what fuckin’ manner do think you’re adressin’ me, you ugly ass chucklefuck?”

The Grand Highblood usually laughed at these things, tickled by their mutual manner of casual back and forth. He was a grim sorry sight now, not a mirthful glint to be seen on his ugly, painted face. “Do I look like I’m making with the motherfucking jokes here, Your Hideousness.” 

The Empress turned reluctantly from her screen back to her Helmsman, placed her ring adorned hands on his head and reached out again for his soul. She dragged him back screaming, the noising filling up her bridge. The clown was becoming impatient. 

“Do you got your motherfucking listen on --” he began.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Clam it while I bring My Tuna back from your ugly clown shell.” He shut up, however momentarily. When she was done, she turned back to the Grand Highblood, grim. Her eyes kept glancing to Alternia. She had a thousand fucking message alerts from all her other ships. “Did you hear it too?” 

“I had the holy vision of the dark carnival. That the end was all up and on us, to take us to the dark depths of what is nothingness. I saw the prophecy of our motherfucking end, as dictated to us sorry fuckers by the mirthful messiahs. And then when I got here, to be close to the end, I found jack motherfucking shit except wigglers.”

The Empress breathed out a noise that would be considered undignified. The entire time, she had been twisting a diamond ring on her finger. “So they ain’t dead?”

He looked miserable. “No, they motherfucking ain’t. What shit begotten sin have you committed, Empress? What manner of hideous debasement have you done to us?” 

“Ain’t done shit,” she said. 

He didn’t believe her. “Fuck your blasphemous bullshit,” he said. “Fuck you and that lowblooded motherfucker you rode in on. Fuck you to lowest motherfucking bowels of grim hell. I need a new motherfucking crew.” 

The Empress tutted impatiently. “The fuck you do?”

“I culled every last one of ‘em on account of them supposed to be fucking dead to the anyhow. I’ll be up and back, you sea salt stenched hag. Get me a new motherfucking crew,” and then he cut communications off.

The Empress let herself sigh out a relieved breath. Behind her, the Helmsman was whining, agonised. She turned to him again and with another sigh, she reached out to stroke a greasy, gold tainted strand of his black hair. “Sorry. You know how it is, we in this bitch together. I ain’t ready to let you go yet.” He whimpered, and less tenderly, she turned from him and moved back to the main command hub. She opened all channels. “Listen up. I’m callin’ all you violet, purple and indigo fuckers home. Leave your bluebloods in charge. We got business to discuss. This ain’t a request, so make it snappy. Empress out.”

Turning the communications off entirely, The Empress directed her ship towards the pink moon, where her old castle-hive stood, in relative ruin. She kept her eyes on the grey Alternia.

Meenah Peixes, Her Imperious Condescension, third and longest living Empress of Alternia’s history, sat down in her chair and whispered: “What the coddamn fuck is goin’ on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For updates, snippets and related stuff, follow me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/wandkinds)!


	2. ACT ONE, 01: Karkat

**0001 | KARKAT**

On the evening of the very last day of your life, you are vomiting into your load-gaper. Terror has taken hold of you, launching you head first into the nasty, red soaked pits of indignity. You have been retching for at least an hour, listening to the bawling wails of the imperial ships outside. Your lusus has been doing a nervous side-step dance for fifty of the sixty minutes you have been heaving your guts out for. Frankly, it makes you feel worse. It seems impossible that you could have anything left rustling around your insides and yet you give one more horrible, burning retch and then you role away from the gaper and lie flat on your back, across your ablution chamber floor, spent. 

You would like oblivion to take you here and now right here on the floor, while your dignity is in shreds and you’re too exhausted to give a rodent-beasts ass about it. A murder-clown could swoop in through the window and club you to death and you would say, from beyond the grave, thank you Mr. Subjuggulator, sir, may I have another?

For some heinous reason, you never thought this day would come. ‘This day’ being Deployment Day, of course. The last day of your ill-begotten youth and the first day of adulthood, which all healthy and loyal trolls look forward to. You’re not sure what you thought would happen when it came your time for active duty. When you were a raucous wiggler, you had a little fantasy that you would make the Threshecutioner Corps. That they would see your gusto and look beyond your mutation and say, this kids got it folks! Now that this dreaded day is here, you realise you are basically fucked. You will never become a Threshecutioner. What a laughable dream it had been all along that you would ever rise to the same ranks as Troll Will Smith. That you would ever match his bravery or achieve the same level of televised infamy as he. You have been hiding your entire miserable life from imperial drones, and now there is literally nowhere else to fucking hide! The walls are closing in! The timer has run out!

Your lusus begins another little crab-dance, his claws pinching anxiously. The drones will be coming soon, he says. He has to keep you safe, he says. He has always had to keep you safe. You feel an overwhelming surge of real sadness for this overgrown, overprotective idiot who has raised you so tenderly. How terrible it must be to raise an ungrateful brat like you. You watch him gesture frantically to get up and to follow him. You do not.

You look out the window above and across from you. You can see the imperial ships in the distance, hovering over. Great big hulking vessels of misery, taunting you. You remember seeing propaganda images online of such ships and staring with wide-eyed wonder. In person, mere miles from your hive, your hands tremble by your sides just to look upon them. You try to remember what the sky used to look like before her Majesty had returned home, with all her highblooded groupies in tow. You try to remember what life was like before she had taken to haunting the planet with a fleet of Subjuggulators and the Alternian Naval Fleet in orbit, suddenly interested in what the young had been getting up to in her absence. You try to remember what it was like to simply hide from imperial drones instead of honking over-sized clowns with clubs bigger than their heads. 

Perhaps that isn’t fair, though, on the clowns. In the sweep and a half since their arrival, you have hardly seen a clown on account of abandoning all hope of your own continued existence, opting instead to lie in hiding and trembling until you pass out. The very sound of a WHOOP WHOOP now causes you so much anxiety that you can barely stand to be anywhere except under your hive, made as small as you can be. Your fight or flight instinct in fully tuned into flight, and you have mastered it to an art. However, today is the day you are supposed to become an Adult. Today you are to meet your destiny with whatever dignity you have left. Today, you really have to learn how to be brave, if only for a short while. 

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and today is the day you are destined to die.

-

On the day that you are destined to die, you pack a little bag. Inside are some illicit red-themed novels, some weird things your lusus has given you, and of course, your spare thermal cloak. You anticipate that neither this one, nor the one you are currently wearing, will do jack shit to save you. You are basically living on false hope. 

You, unlike your old friends, did not receive your official Summons. You figure that this is on account of you not technically existing in any official capacity. On top of the crime of being a mutant, you are also a: tax evader, hive squatter, and worst of all, a teenage melodrama consumer. You try not to think about this as you pack. Thinking of your many crimes will just send you back to the load-gaper for round two. 

While you’re packing, you think about what to do. Being fully aware of one’s imminent death does not mean that you can’t at least try to not die. Your options, you think, are limited. You are very obviously neither nobility nor aristocracy. You have no psychic ability whatsoever. Now that you’re off the ablution chamber floor and of sounder mind, you have to admit that you lost the stomach for the Threshecutioner Corps a while ago. But you think: why not? Why not go out, doing what your dumb past-self wanted to do? Why not go out looking as supremely fucking stupid as your whole life has basically been? Look at this brave idiot, they’ll say, and then divorce your head from your shoulders with admirable precision. 

You hiccup. Maybe you could join some other line. Just look out for a bunch of smug gold or bronze bloods and blend in with them for a bit. Maybe you’d have the dignity of dying on an imperial vessel rather than being culled in the sand by a drone. You hiccup again and wipe your eyes. It’s all so stupid. So stupid and unfair. You’re a kid with dreams just like everyone else about to embark on their destiny. You would have made such a good soldier, you think. The most loyal of all. The Empress would say jump, and you would say how fucking high, Your Majesty!

Your lusus clicks and whistles, a kind of desperate nonsense that you appreciate but simply cannot deal with right now. 

You’ve got an hour yet before you’re expected to leave. You’re basically packed. Your lusus is hovering, still clicking with enough anxiety to rival your own. Despite yourself, you find yourself thinking about everything you didn’t get a chance to do. 

You think about your friends, who you have barely kept in contact with since you failed to organise yourselves correctly into teams to play a game. You grew apart, as trolls do. It has been a supremely lonely time, even with the few of them you kept in contact with. In a moment of weakness, you take your husktop and sit on the floor. You open Trollian, take a deep breath, and then open a memo. It has twelve participants. Only ten of you are online, and while feeling sentimental, you begin to feel a sense of loss. It would be shitty to die without making some kind of peace with all things from your past that used to inch one second closer to cardiac arrest. 

> carcinoGeneticist [CG] RIGHT NOW opened memo on board COLLECTIVE PANTS SHITTING  
>    
>  CG: GOOD EVENING, ‘PALS’. IT’S BEEN A WHILE, I KNOW.   
>  CG: I SEE YOU’RE ALL ONLINE, EXCEPT FOR FEFERI. IS SHE THE ONLY ONE US GETTING READY TO FACE THE REST OF HER LIFE?  
>  AG: Are you kidding me? Why did you invite us into this stupid memo!!!!!!! Today of 8LL days, Vantas!  
>  CG: HONESTLY? WHO THE FUCK KNOWS. I WAS FEELING NOSTALGIC WHILE I WAS PACKING UP WHAT LITTLE I COULD BEAR TO TAKE WITH ME. I THOUGHT, WOW! WE’RE ALL ABOUT TO GO FACE THE REST OF OUR LIVES! WOULDN’T IT BE NICE TO NOT BE A BULGE IN THE LAST MOMENTS OF ‘FREEDOM’? WOULDN’T IT BE JUST DANDY IF I CHECKED IN ON MY OLD PALS?  
>  TA: ii2 thii2 a joke  
>  CA: wwhat the evver lovvin fuck vvantas some of us are busy an dont have time for your theatrics  
>  AG: EX8CTLY!!!!!!!!  
>  CG:LOOK WHO’S FUCKING TALKING, ERIDAN!  
>  GC: >:?   
>  GC: L3TS NOT PR3T3ND W3 4R3N’T COLL3CT1V3LY SH1TT1NG TH3 R3CUPP3RCOON H3R3  
>  CG: WH4T D1D YOU W4NT TO S4Y K4RK4T?  
>  CG: UH. THANKS, TEREZI.   
>  GC: >:]  
>  CG: BASICALLY, I WANTED TO SAY: LET’S ALL TRY AND MAKE IT THROUGH THIS?   
>  CG: I KNOW I REALLY SCREWED THE POOCH ON BEING A TEAM LEADER, BUT I FELT SOME RESPONSIBILITY TO PERSONALLY MAKE SURE EVERYONE IS SHITTING THEMSELVES TO MANAGEABLE DEGREES?   
>  CA: speak for yourself i aint shittin nofin  
>  TC: aWh FuCk.  
>  CA: oh hey gam  
>  TC: :o)   
>  CG: HI, GAMZEE. MY POINT IS, AREN’T WE ALL FEELING A LITTLE   
>  CG: YOU KNOW  
>  CG: ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED?   
>  AC: :33 < *ac yawns and stretches. she is a little cranky having just been woken up from her catnap!*   
>  CG: SORRY, NEPETA.   
>  AC: :33 < *ac furgives him! *  
>  CG: I’LL LET THAT SLIDE ON ACCOUNT OF YOU JUST WAKING UP.  
>  AG: Why would any of us 8e terrified? We’ve all 8een 8asically w8ing on this day our whole L8VES!  
>  TA: oH, uHHHH,, i THINK I MAY ACTUALLY BE A LITTLE TERRIFIED BUT ALSO, vERY EXCITED,,   
>  AG: That’s 8ecause you’re a certified narc, Tavros!   
>  TA: wHAT IS, a NARC,  
>  GC: L34V3 H1M 4LON3!  
>  GC: UGH   
>  GC: YOU’R3 SO 4NNOY1NG VR1SK4  
>  TC: WhAt Is It We ArE aLl Up AnD gEtTiN oUr YaMmEr On AbOuT iN tHiS sWeEt As FuCk ReUnIfIcAtIoN?  
>  CG: UH. IT’S DEPLOYMENT DAY GAMZEE.   
>  TC: :o?   
>  AG: Gamzee, didn’t you get your summons????????  
>  TA: iit2 probably fla2hiing red by now  
>  TC: oH sHiT iS tHaT wHaT tHaT uP aNd Is BeInG?  
>  GC: G4MZ33 PL34S3 R34D 1T   
>  GC: 1T WOULD B3 4 SH4M3 TO LOS3 YOU SO SOON!  
>  TC: :o)  
>  CG: OH FOR FUCK SAKE. OKAY, WHILE GAMZEE CATCHES THE FUCK UP: DO YOU THINK WE COULD ALL, I DON’T KNOW, PUT OUR COLLECTIVE SHIT ASIDE AND HOPE WE ALL LIVE LONG LIVES AND WISH EACH OTHER THE BEST?   
>  AC: :33 < *ac thinks that sounds pawsitively sweet!*  
>  CT: D—-> It sounds e%ceedingly pointless to wish the lowb100ds well  
>  AC: :33 < equius!   
>  CA: wwhen hes right hes right  
>  GA: Oh  
>  GA: I Really Dont Have Time To Talk  
>  CG: CAN YOU ASSHOLES TRY AND PRETEND YOU’RE NOT ASSHOLES FOR TEN FUCKING MINUTES!   
>  GA: Sorry   
>  GA: This Is Very Sweet Karkat But I Have To Leave In Less Than Ten Minutes   
>  AG: Why are you leaving so early fussy fangs? :::?   
>  GA: Jade Bloods Are Being Taken Before The Crowds Begin To Form  
>  GA: For Safety Reasons  
>  AG: 8ooooooo.   
>  GC: >:] TH3 F1RST OF US TO F4C3 H3R D3ST1NY  
>  GA: Actually Im On Slurry Duty First   
>  CG: OH. SORRY KANAYA.  
>  GA: Thats Okay I Think It Will Be Valuable Experience In Humility And Hygiene 

For the last five minutes, you have had your face in one hand. You are very ready to bang your head repeatedly off the husk top. In a way, it’s comforting that no one has especially changed. In another, you wish to all fuck that they had. You’re too busy worrying about your own doom, you can’t worry about these idiots too. 

> TC: :o?  
>  GC: MR GR4P3FRU1T! WH4T 1S TH3 V3RD1CT? >:?  
>  TC: SuBjUgGuLaToR uUuUhHh …  
>  TC: sOmEtHiN :o?  
>  GC: 4ND YOUR SH1P?  
>  AG: Who caaaaaaaares? ::::/  
>  TA: tHATS GREAT, gAMZEE,  
>  TC: GrAnD sLaUgHtErAtOr DeLtA.   
>  TC: tHaNkS bRo :o).   
>  TA: }:)  
>  GC: N1C3! M3 TOO   
>  TC: Oh WoRd?  
>  GC: Y3S >:]

You have completely lost control of this memo.

> CG: THAT’S GREAT GAMZEE. GOOD FOR YOU. I MEAN THAT SINCERELY. I HOPE YOU AND TEREZI HAVE A FANTASTIC FUCKING TIME DANCING WITH MURDER CLOWNS.   
>  CG: ANYWAY, SINCE WE’RE ALL MOSTLY HERE AND THIS HAS ALREADY BASICALLY DESCENDED INTO CHAOS, I GUESS I’LL END THIS WITH: GOOD LUCK? I GENUINELY HOPE YOU SAD SACKS OF CHUTE WASTE GO FAR. I KNOW WE’VE HAD OUR DIFFERENCES OVER THE LAST FEW SWEEPS, BUT I’D LIKE TO THINK WE’VE ALL PUT ON OUR BIG TROLL PANTS AND GROWN THE FUCK UP.   
>  CG: I DON’T KNOW IF WE’LL EVER SPEAK TO EACH OTHER AGAIN, BUT SOME OF THE TIME WE SHARED WASN’T COMPLETELY TERRIBLE. SOME OF IT WAS PRETTY GOOD, EVEN.   
>  CG: SOME OF IT WAS PRETTY FUCKED UP, OBVIOUSLY. I’M LOOKING AT YOU VRISKA.   
>  AG: HEY!!!!!!!! >:::(  
>  CG: WHAT I’M TRYING TO SAY IS: I’M GOING TO MISS YOU. I WISH FEFERI AND ARADIA WERE HERE TO SAY GOODBYE TO, TOO.   
>  CG: KICK SHAME-GLOBE’S, TAKE NAMES! TAKE THE EMPIRE BY THE HORNS AND MAKE IT TREMBLE, ETC!  
>  CG: AND DON’T FUCKING DIE!

Your pusher is in your throat when you close the husktop over, and not just because each of your friends is their own kind of uniquely applied stupid. Gone now are the jagged days of your youth. You aren’t sure you spent them well. You find yourself suddenly wishing you had been less of an obstinate bulge-weed. You wish you had taken more chances. You wish you had been more confident in your own feelings about literally everything. You wish, sincerely, that you had gotten the chance to play SGRUB and seen your friends in person. You wish you had gotten to do something meaningful, the way Sollux had promised it would be. 

Solemnly, you finish attending to your personal effects and then face the last, most difficult task of all. You have to say goodbye to your crab-dad. It is unfair, and hard, and you will miss him terribly. He has been clicking and trying to grab you; to drag you into your little hiding pit, where he thinks you will be safe from what you are about to face. It’s a tempting thought. But how long can you hide, really? How long can you stay in this hive, or the next, before someone becomes suspicious? You do what you have to do, which is to disentangle yourself from him, take his pincers in your hands, and tell him you love him. You say goodbye, and try to pretend that hearing his desperate clicks as you leave is not utterly heart-breaking. It’s better this way, you think. 

When you leave him to face your end, this is what you think: that you will miss him. 

-

Avoiding drones on the way to the Imperial Ships is, to be frank, an absolute fucking nightmare. They are everywhere. You look like a Grade A Asshole in your thermal cloaking cloak, hustling close to crowds of tall, lanky trolls heading towards their assigned vessels. There are several members of the Cavalreapers keeping the lines moving, directing trolls to their correct placements. You think you see Archadictators ahead too, bows primed and ready to spot runners. Perhaps under any other circumstance other than this, you would be in awe of being so close to them. You quickly latch onto a group of stooped over goldbloods and follow them to their assigned place. You have never been surrounded by so many people before, and it terrifies you. 

Some of the trolls ahead of you have already started to show their caste-colour in their eyes. You are thankful to see that a significant amount of have not. It means your life is spared another miserable, agonised second. 

There is a lot of waiting around. You can see, some distance far away, purple bloods and teal bloods being marched onto five different ships, some bearing the marks of the mainstream Mirthful Church. You can see sharply dressed teal bloods directing the lines. You think you see some being taken aside, and you dread to think why. In your own group, you hear the prattle of idle gossip. There are other blood-caste’s among you; trolls who were deemed unsuited for their usual roles. Trolls with exceptional proficiency for doomsday machines and with mad coding skills. All of it is very depressing to you, because you think you might have actually liked to have been in their ranks. 

Just as you think about how you cannot afford a single distraction, your palmhusk vibrates in your pocket. You glance around warily before you take it out.

> TA: what 2hiip are you a22iigned two

You resist the urge to groan or do some kind of thrilled-relieved whoop. 

> CG: HOW IS THAT ANY OF YOUR BUSINESS?   
>  TA: iim on the 22 deathnaught

You pause. Was that an invitation? Of course not, but it might as well have been. You glance around at the many faces you don’t know. You feel your guts do a five-thousand-foot drop. You feel a profound weakness overcome you. You know that you shouldn’t do this; after all, what kind of troll makes their friend watch them die? However, you find that you don’t want to die alone, and if you are to die with anyone by your side, it might as well be Sollux Captor. 

> CG: ME TOO. WHAT A FUCKING COICIDENCE. I CAN’T FIND THE RIGHT LINE.   
>  TA: iit2 the la2t one  
>  CG: FUCKING GREAT! I TAKE IT THIS IS AN INVITATION FOR ME TO SKIP IN WITH YOU?  
>  TA: 2ure  
>  CG: FANTASTIC. 

You begin to slowly push through the crowd, ignoring the irritated push-back’s of trolls twice your size. The lines have started forming neater rows. The Cavalreapers have started a headcount. You push your way faster, through endless rows of pissy adolescents, eyes frantically searching for -- 

Well. Fuck. You actually have no idea what Sollux looks like now, do you? Is he short? Is he tall? Exactly what shape are his horns, again? Which eye is red and which is blue? You reach the last line, which is miles long, and begin to glance frantically across the sea of faces you do not fucking know. You look for something that screams HI, I’M 2OLLUX, and find that most of them are dripped in fucking duality. You can feel your blood-pusher sink as you discreetly try to scan the line. And then, just when you think all is lost, you see a hand waving some way up ahead. Four horns. Bowl cut. Stupid fucking glasses and a least two feet taller than you, now. 

You could kiss him. 

All around you there are vague voices of dissent when you slip in at Sollux’s side; you absolutely do not give a fuck about them. You’re going to die in less than twenty minutes! They can all suck the big one! Sollux himself is lankier and skinnier up close. His nose is sharper than you imagined, overbite also larger than you imagined, and he is impossibly both handsome and absolutely stupid looking. While you think all of this, you can tell that he’s eyeing you up and down. Not once, not twice, and not even just thrice. “You look like a vagrant,” he says, lisping through each word.

You try to take this disappointment on the chin. “You look like a bean-pole,” you hiss back, inching away from a passing by Cavalreaper. You no longer think he looks handsome. He’ll have to earn that one back. “How long have you been waiting?” 

“A while,” he says, finally looking away from you. His fingers move over his palmhusk with a rapid speed. You try to peak at who, but his arms are too far above your head. “They had some kind of problem with their scanners,” he adds, without so much as a sneer your way. 

“Scanners?” you ask, your gut doing another little twist. 

He glances at you. “For your belongings,” he says, with a nod to your little packed bag. “They’re scanning for doomsday devices and contraband machinery,” he says, voice a little wretched and the tone sharp. 

You see a fleet of drones returning to a nearby ship, and consciously step closer to him. “Right,” you say. Of course, it makes sense that they would be scanning belongings. What an oversight on your part. You see Sollux’s fingers pause and he sighs, unable to stop eyeing your cloak. “What,” you hiss, “do you keep making that face at?”

“It’s just so stupid,” he says, picking up a loose lump of your cloak and then letting it drop. “You look like the squawk-beast lady from Unmerciful Poppins.” 

You snap back, tugging the dense fabric out of reach. “Stop touching my clothes you insufferable weirdo!” 

He grins with all his remaining teeth and you think he looks less ugly than he ought to, again. “I’d say make me, but you’re too short to reach.” 

Infuriating. You haven’t hit your final growth spurt! For a moment you forget that you never will: you think, when you do, that you’ll show him what’s for! And then you remember, and nothing matters again. 

“Can you stop flirting,” a troll says from behind you both. “It really is so fucking embarrassing to witness.”

You and Sollux both turn at the same time, your nostrils flaring and Sollux’s eyebrows making an appearance above his glasses. “Here’s a thought,” you say. “Maybe you would be less of a bitter voyeur if you minded your own fucking business! Nobody asked for input from the gossip gallery, you over-stretched slither-fuck! Why don’t you go and find someone who gives a shit about your commentary, however fucking unlikely that may be!”

The troll -- the same caste-colour as Equius, you notice - makes an ugly snarl-like expression with his face. The girl standing behind him looks delighted by your insubordination. “Do you have any idea who I am?” 

“No,” says Sollux, turning way. “I’d guess nobody else does either.” He’s back to typing on his palmhusk. You glower at the troll and then turn your back, too. 

“For the record,” you say, keeping close enough that your arms are touching. You feel very insecure, even more so now that you have some pissed off blueblood bitching behind your back. “It was embarrassing. You have almost nine sweeps of dirt on me, Captor, and the best you can do is call me short? Really scraping the bottom of the flirtbarrel there. I'm more offended by the lack of effort, to be honest.”

Sollux pauses his typing and turns to you. You have no idea what his expression means. “At least we’re admitting it’s flirting,” he says, you think sounding smug.

“You're flirting,” you say, just a fraction too quickly. "Nobody said anything about me, and you can't prove shit." The line starts to move slowly; your blood-pusher starts to race again.

He might be smirking. It’s hard to tell with the way his fangs overlap over his mouth. “Who’s almost nine sweeps again?” he says, nudging you with his elbow.

You huff and nudge him back. You will grudgingly accept that he is handsome, and only because you are inching closer to death.

The line stops again. You try and see ahead, to where the ship is open and horns are piling in. It’s a slow as all fuck process. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders and let out an exhale. “Sollux,” you say quietly, looking straight ahead. You frown, for once in your life unsure how to phrase what you want to say next. Aren’t you scared? Do you ever feel like we’ve wasted so much time? Will you miss me? You feel supremely vulnerable and as a consequence, supremely pathetic. 

Sollux has not averted his eyes from you. In person, the red and blue remind you of … something. You can’t quite remember what; something from when you were obnoxious wigglers, talking about games. The past always makes you feel like something important was supposed to happen, and then didn’t. “Karkat,” he says, and you blink. You turn to him, and you think he falters. The line starts moving again, and you see him frown. “It’s okay to be scared,” he says, you think quite sincerely. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him not be a smartass. It throws you.

“I’m not scared,” you say, terrified. 

His thumb is tapping the edge of his palmhusk. “You are,” he says, like he can see straight through your bullshit and directly into your think-pan. “It’s fine.”

You bristle. “Aren’t you shitting yourself?”

Sollux goes quiet. The line keeps moving, and his face has taken on such a severity that you think he might not answer. You can hear adults barking orders. You hear the whizzing of more drones. Behind you, you can hear the blueblood still bitching to the trolls around him. “Yeah,” says Sollux, so quietly you almost miss it. For some reason, it unnerves you more than your own imminent demise. 

-

It takes you both forever to reach the front. The closer you get, the more checked out you are from Sollux’s baiting. You are consumed with a soul-crushing fear that you are surprised you haven’t collapsed into the dirt as a convulsing, mouth-foaming mess. You are surprised you haven’t pissed your pants or turned and promptly fled. Sollux at least seems to sense that you’re tense, and promptly tells you that your coding skills aren’t cull worthy. You think about upchucking onto his shoes. 

When it is your turn, you are faced with a face-scarred troll with eyes like Vriska’s colouring. She is, you think, less energetic thank Vriska, and even meaner. “Hatch-Name and given name,” she says, absolutely monotone. When she speaks, you can see the sharp points of her teeth. At her hip is a gun, and strapped to her thigh, a knife. She could kill you in seconds, and so you do what any able-minded troll would do: you answer. 

“Hatch-name Vantas,” you say. “Karkat,” you say. You glance to Sollux. He isn’t looking at you. His attention has been taken by his palmhusk again. He has a worrisome frown as he types. You wish he would look at you. 

She begins to type, looking exceedingly weary. Her brows come together. “Spell that, please.” You do. She frowns, her eyes sharp as they measure you up. “No record,” she says, quite slowly. She glances to the troll standing a little way behind her, and then back to you. “Wait here,” she begins, before her device begins to make a frantic noise. Her frown only deepens, and even wearier, she sighs: “Oh, for fuck sake -- what is wrong with these huskpads today?” She begins to press buttons, and then less dignified, she slaps it against her knee entirely. It makes another noise, and she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Oh, Mirthful God’s give me the strength. Spell it again, please.” 

You do. You have begun to sweat. You can feel the other trolls watching you, talking among themselves. You can’t even bear to look at Sollux. You prepare for the worst, and idly wish that you had kissed Sollux. You wish that you had kissed Terezi. You wish -

“Vantas, Karkat,” she says. “Caste number 80709. Blood: burgundy. Eight point five sweeps. You submitted as a programmer-cadet, is this all correct?”

No, you think. Very little of that is correct. You don’t know your caste number. Your blood colour is not burgundy. You did not submit as a programmer-cadet. You swallow, your throat feeling sandpaper. You have started to twist your cloak in your hands into tight bunches. “Yes?” you say, barely audible. 

She makes a face at you. “Cadet Vantas, I don’t say this lightly, but: you have to grow some balls. You look like a wiggler staring down the Grand Highblood himself. Inernta, give him his card and get him out of my sight. Next.” 

You are sweating. Another troll steps forward and hands you some kind of key-card, a number printed in a large type-set. “Please head straight to the scanners and then to the mess hall to await further instructions,” she says, no kinder. 

You nod. You take the key-card and you head towards the scanner. When you look back at Sollux, he gives you a subtle thumbs up. You think he looks relieved. You have no idea what the ever loving fuck is happening, and you feel numb as you submit your belongings to be scanned. You wait for Sollux before you walk to the mess hall, mostly because he is the only thing that seems to make sense right now. You are a certifiably perplexed mess. You have somehow managed to pull off the con of the century without even trying. You have no idea what the fuck is happening. You think you might vomit again, right here on the floor.

“Their techs so old,” says Sollux when he catches up with you. “It’s embarrassing.” 

“Yeah,” you say. “So embarrassing.” 

Sollux nudges you with his elbow again. You try to look more like yourself, especially when you enter the mess hall. It’s packed; wall to wall trolls of varying sizes and blood-colour. There are no more drones, you note, but there are more official looking adults, dressed in their colour-coded uniforms. Some of them, you note, are definitely royalty. Navy Admirals. Captains. All decorated enforcers of the Empress’ regime. You swallow down your fear. You’ve made it. By some fucked up stroke of luck, you have made it to live another day. All at once the fear-relief takes over you. You can’t wait to be alone later, and just bawl your goddamn eyes out. 

You miss your lusus so much already. You wish you could tell him that you’ve made it out alive. 

You and Sollux find somewhere to stand near the back. Behind you, more trolls come in before the door shuts abruptly. A hush falls over the crowd. At the front, a seadweller steps forward. He’s handsome, you think. Taller than everyone else in the room with two horns stand directly upright before the swoop down towards his face. There’s a scar over his cheek, deeply tainted violet. His uniform is black, lined in royal hues and shining medals. There is a sneer to his mouth that you think may have permanent residence there. Looking at him fills you with raw admiration. 

He clears his throat. “Cadets. I am Admiral Felzir Terbon. I’ll keep this real brief. We’ve got another six groups to induct, so pay attention: your key card gives you access to your shared quarters and to your testing stations. At the end of the testing period you will be reassigned to your semi-permanent positions, lasting fourteen perigee’s. You will be closely monitored and reassigned as determined by your,” he pauses, casting a weary glance to the trolls flanking him. “Superiors. There will be no questions. Captain Serlian and her soldiers will take you to your designated quarters, and your last meal will be served at eleven sharp. Now, everyone prepare to swear fealty to Her Imperious Condescension and then get fuck out of my sight.”

Everyone stands to attention at once, hands over chest, backs straight. You and Sollux share a glance and follow suit in less rigid of a manner, mumbling through the words. You understand, for a moment, why the Empress inspires such strict loyalty; it’s hard not to feel something in a room full of people passionately belting out their adoration and swearing to serve till death do you part. Admiral Terbon even looks momentarily moved, and you guess he’s already done this shit at least four other times. You wonder, distantly, if he’s met her. You wonder if any of the decorated superiors in front of you have. 

You watch Admiral Terbon take a step back after you’re all done; Captain Serlian steps forward in his place, along with fourteen others. They begin separating you into fifteen groups by keycard number: you glance at the number on yours and Sollux does the same. “Same deck,” you say, quietly relieved. “Where’s the number for the quarters?”

“Other side,” Sollux mutters as you both move into line. “I thought they’d be separated by blood-caste,” he admits quietly. “Or skill level.” 

“Probably at the next stage.” You have an instinctive understanding of how this will work; they will weed out the weakest of you and adjust accordingly. You have bought yourself some more time, but the walls are still closing in. You learned to swim with another 800 miles to go. You and Sollux leave the mess hall with the others in single file. You think about sharing quarters with another troll. You think about how careful you'll have to be in the mornings; you think about how difficult it's going to be to not to cry watching the movies you've brought with you. You try to convince yourself that maybe there’s a way out of this alive after all, by simply not being you. 

Maybe you can do it. Maybe you can see this through until the end. You look ahead at Sollux, and exhale. It's fine, you think. You're alone, but you're not as alone as you could be. You can do this, and if you can't, then at least you won't do that alone either. You have been given a gift by some sweet agent of mercy, and you plan to take advantage of it.

(Ahead of you, where you can't see, Sollux stares down at his palmhusk. One new message sent -- the only message available to read. )

> TA: we made iit iin 2peak 2oon

-

One.

Two.

Three –

It’s the sixth hive. Someone says this, through the first early and scorching rise of sunlight. It’s the sixth hive, and outside is the lusus. Non-standard. Easily identifiable. It waits, and has been waiting for hours for some kind of sign. When they approach, it moves inside. They follow, expectant, and inside what they find is this: old posters, some torn down in a hurry. They find a broken husktop, movie memorabilia discarded in a rush. They find some old torn clothes, hastily thrown aside for whatever is left. They find food cans, opened and consumed. The hive has been lived in, and turned upside down in a hurry.

They find the lusus, hovering close to the empty recuperacoon, and one asks: “Where is he?”

One dressed in an Imperial uniform lined with blue, and another lined in green. The lusus makes a noise; a pained wailing that they hush quickly. There’s no time. The one in blue takes in the mess — the emptiness — and feels the first rush of panic. There’s no time left. “We’re too late,” they say, head inched close to the other.

They share a glance. “Could he already be -?”

“There’s been no news. Not even on the naval channels. No executions yet, public or private. No gossip among cadets. Her ship remains stationery.”

The lusus makes another noise, desperate. They share a glance. The one in green reaches for it, gently. “We’ll find him,” they say, a hand patting hard-shell with awkward tenderness.

“On our life,” says the other. “You know what to do, now. Destroy the hive, return to the brooding caverns and wait for us.”

The sun rises further. The troll in blue begins to wrap their hands and their head with thick, woven cloth. There really is no more time left, here. The ships will leave in an hour for their planets; whatever plan they form next, it will take time. Patience. 

And oh, are they not the masters of their own patience now? Have they not waited sweeps for a sign already?

The lusus begins his task. He picks up the small things; things they imagine to be sentimental. The clothes, the posters, and all the small things in between. They share another glance, and understand that they will never understand what it means to lose a child. They understand this, and they go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karkat vetted. edited and verified by [Shadow](http://www.twitter.com/shellkinds), who has patiently listened to me talk about Sollux, Karkat, word counts and how Admiral Terbon Fucks for almost two weeks. I'm going on vacation in two days, so sadly I will not be able to write Terezi's chapter in the same four day fugue-state that I wrote this in. Just know that she's next, and also that I love her. 
> 
> If you'd like to see me scream to the wind about it, you can do it [by clicking here](http://www.twitter.com/wandkinds). The Davebot stuff is standard, sorry.


	3. ACT ONE, 02: Terezi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes in around 6.8k, so settle in for clowns, JUST1C3 and dead girls. 
> 
> You can follow me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/wandkinds) for updates etc!

** SWEEPS IN THE PAST, BUT NOT MANY . . .  **

Death calls to her. It is a solemn chant; a symphony of bones and old ghosts. It is a hymn amongst the garbled wails of the undead, low and hypnotic. Few can hear it, and those few often wish they could not. The dead have always liked to speak; their voices whispering and singing in the twilight, speaking prophecies of doom and of destruction. Their bodies have turned to dust, withered and decayed by red sunlight and acid rain. The whispers are all they have left, the very last, desperate pleas of their souls. 

There is one body that she seeks. The dead girl has been dead for a day. Her body has been laid to rest by friends who have cared for her. The irony is not lost: she died carelessly. 

Her ghost does not sing. She haunts her hive as though it still belongs to her. Perhaps it does. The rules of death have been elusive for eons; why would it start to make sense now? She floats between rooms, listless and without purpose. Purpose is supposed to come for her soon, but destiny is fickle, just like time. What she and her visitor both understand, if nothing else, is time. Her visitor has plenty of time, but she lacks patience.

She takes the body carefully, and looks upon her face. The features, like her own, hollowing and ashen. There is tragedy in dying young. She thinks she heard that, once. This tragedy was avoidable, but it suits her purposes that it happened. She needs the body. This is the first step of many that will close a loop. This is not how things are supposed to end, but not everything is linear, and not all timelines are equal. Things have changed, and so she must take new steps. 

The ghost sees her. The dead move fast; in a blink of an eye she is there, barely five feet tall and unfazed. Unmoved. 

“You are not supposed to be here,” says the ghost with her warbling voice and the whites of her eyes flickering white-red-white.

“No.”

The dead girl tilts her head. “Why? Has this timeline become doomed?”

“No,” says the visitor again. “This timeline has moved beyond the confines of relevancy.” Words, she thinks, have also become meaningless. For a moment, her eyes look beyond the ghost, towards the other rows of distant hives. Small; poorer lowbloods with poorer resources. In the past, Alternia had been a distant, grey sphere worthy of disdain. “We exist outside of truth, and beyond the reach of Him,” she says, distracted. “For now.”

The dead girl looks to her body. Whether understanding comes to her is of no concern to her visitor. Understanding or not, she will and must proceed. ”I was supposed to play a game,” she says, an ashen hand hovering over her own, rigid face. There is a beat. “And now I will stay dead.”

The visitor smiles for the first time in a long, long time. “You were supposed to play a game, and now I will stay alive. Would you like to come with me for a while, Aradia?”

The dead girl is quiet for a moment, white eyes staring at the dusty, hollowing remains of her body. Is she still Aradia? She thinks this, a vaguely intrusive thought that she has been allowing to consume her. Is she still Aradia Megido? Is she still herself, is she anyone without the comforting strings of destiny to pull her where she needs to go? “Yes,” she says at last. “I don’t think that I am supposed to. So I will.”

The visitor’s smile widens, her eyes flashing blue and red, over and over and over, and then just red. Aradia — and she is Aradia, she has decided — watches the red surround her body, circling tight. And then, in the blink of an eye, they’re gone. 

-

**0002 | TEREZI**

Nine minutes into the introductory briefing, there is a scream. All eyes turn but yours; you can already smell the peppermint gore spilling onto the floor, and can hear the sloppy dripdripdrip from the Subjuggulators club. There is a stunned hush among the crowd and you can feel the tense, tightly wound anxiety spreading among the ranks. 

But this is not a slaughter. You hear the sound of metal snapping and smell the silver-copper scent as it moves in hand, to the front of the crowd. The troll — your caste-colour, male — groans, and you realise not only is he alive, but he is being dragged along too. You turn your head to the front, standing to attention. You sniff with great purpose and deduce the following: the Subjuggulator is very large, and he reeks of Alternian herb. The kind you find deep in the forest wastes, the kind of herb which stinks for hours. He smells of inky-black and purple leathers; he smells like dried blood and grease paint. 

Your newly-bludgeoned cadet-mate is dropped to the ground in front of the large mass of cadets. There are no more groans, but you know that he is alive by the low thudthud thudthud thudthud of his blood pusher. You smell a stale, rancid odour, like sweat which has been left to fester for too long, and realise that the Subjuggulator has lifted his arm. The smell is almost overpowering for you especially, but you do here quiet sniffs and groans of displeasure around you. You wrinkle your assaulted nose and think, blithely, of Gamzee. 

“Worship of the Mirthful Messiahs,” begins the Subjuggulator in a slow, nasally drawl, “ain’t at all a requirement. But we do not got the patience of heretical iconography among our ranks. No fake prophets, no motherfuckin’ fable-ass Empire traitors. If I see a single one of you nasty motherfuckers with shit like this, I’ll float you my skull-damn self.” ‘This’ is a curved shaped; two loops and two tails; opposites. It smells familiar. It smells grey, like — 

You hear a cough. It’s spearmint-cola flavoured, the ice-cold burn searing ice into your nostrils. Bittersweet and prim; they smell like someone who commands respect, and you regret that they have been obscured by the pit-stench depths of the Subjuggulator’s pits. “Please save the theatrics for your classroom, Mr. Bezbet. These are our future Legislacerators, not your clown congregation. A swift death, please.” You like their voice; deep, authoritative. They command control, even among the blood-soaked ranks of the Subjuggulators. 

Mr. Bezbet smells angry. You hear the air tear around his club; several cadets beside you tense up. In one swift motion, you hear the whistle of the club splitting through the air, followed by a crunch, the sloppy wet slam of horns cracking. The Legislacerator has stepped forward. “Mr. Bezbet is correct; iconography pertaining to old anti-empire propaganda is illegal, punishable by immediate execution.” You hear the club come down again, and this time the smell of blood is overpowering. You try very hard to keep your shoulders straight; you pretend not to notice the collective unease. “Now, we will begin again.”

This is how your first day of law school begins: with blood. 

—

After you have witnessed the full, brutal merciless hand of the Empire, you are placed into your groups. From the groups, you begin to be paired up. Two cadets to two Subjuggulators; an upgrade on an old classic. ‘Two weed the weak out,’ you are told. 

You have a conundrum, however: you have to grip your cane tight to control your shaking hands. 

You have been looking forward to this moment your entire life. You can smell the endless canvas of possibility ahead of you, each of your cells brimming with opportunity. You imagined that on this day, you would be giddy with enthusiasm; that you would be lucky if you could bear witness to the Law up front the very way that you just have. You imagined a lot of things as a wiggler, even when you thought you would play the game that would alter your destiny. None of that happened, of course. You did not play, and now here you are, a humble cadet struggling to control her shaking hands.

You cannot stop smelling the gore. You cannot stop hearing the thudthudthud of Mr. Bezbet’s club. You are not filled with the righteous pride you expected you would be. No, instead you feel a strange sense of foreboding. The sense that this will not be the first culling you are confronted with, unprompted and at the whims of your Subjuggulator neighbours. You aren’t stupid, you know exactly how these clowns operate, driven by the desire to subjugate and blood let. You have read up on them thoroughly, and even Gamzee in his vacant state, has expressed that the Subjugglative ranks of her Majestys Empire are mad fuckin’ down with a righteous murderation, sister. You know what to expect, and yet the reality of it has made you turn ship-sick.

You squash it down, for now. First day jitters are insidious if they are allowed to fully manifest. You are standing in a room full of teal blooded, Neophyte hopefuls, all standing in two long rows. Three Legislacerators stand ahead of you, calling names and directing you where to go. You stand as tall as you can, waiting for your own name. The cadets already paired have left to meet their purple-blooded counterparts. You can feel several eyes scan over you, each body electric with nerves. Their names are static in your ears, locked away in your pan for further use later. You are trying so very hard to concentrate. 

“Pezias, Hollou.”

You hear footsteps.

“Peliar, Lyerne.”

More.

“Pilafe, Eddnaa.”

You flex your fingers around your cane. The names continue. O, L, one N.

“Pyrope, Terezi —“

You inhale and step forward. Your mouth spreads out into a wide grin. You can smell surprise; you can smell something akin to disbelief. You lean forward with both hands on your cane and lift your chin in a proud display.

“Libra,” you hear murmured. “Cadet Pyrope, are you blind?”

“Only my eyes, m’am.” Your grin is sharp, and your resolve is sharper. “My nose, my ears and my tongue see all.”

There is a silence. “Let’s hope so. It would be a shame to have that symbol and have you culled before you make Neophyte. To the left, cadet. Qartzi, Lucias, join her.”

Qartzi smells like timid energy and raspberries. He is wearing red over teal, is taller than you, and you can tell his hand is hovering as though to assist you. You turn your grin towards him, and you hear him gulp. You are not fooled. “Mr. Qartzi, shall we?”

“Do you, hm, need a hand?” 

Somehow your grin becomes impossibly wider. “Why? Have mine gone missing?”

Qartzi realises quickly that he has underestimated you. “No. No, hm, silly me. Please, lead the way --” 

You interrupt him with a shrill laugh. Several heads turn to you. “Mr. Qartzi,” you say, grabbing his arm. “How can I lead the way ... when I can’t see the way?” You cackle as he stumbles over his next words, leading you the way down the stairs. You think he might dislike you, but if he cannot handle you now, he won’t last the next half-sweep. 

He leads you to the next room, where your nostrils are assaulted by the stench of sweat and syrup. It’s all so loud: the faygo, the honking, the slurred drawls of your purple-blooded companions talking over their groups in odd metaphors and conceits. You find yourself overwhelmed by the noise; by the smells; by the tastes. Your claws scrape across your cane, and you inhale hard and fast. This is unacceptable. This kind of weakness won’t do, you have to get it together! You have to breathe, have to focus, but it’s all so much. It’s all too much at once, you’re —

“Aight, shut the fuck up!” This voice is familiar. You’re sweating. Qartzi is behind you, radiating disgust. You focus on that. “Get the fuck up into your groups quick like, I ain’t got the motherfuckin’ time to listen to wiggler quadrant gossip.” It’s the slaughterer. Executioner. Subjuggulator Bezbet. 

Qartzi takes your elbow. “Let’s, hm, keep moving, yes? I believe I see our comparatives.” 

You absolutely do not like him touching you. You force out: “Our terror-twins, as it were?” 

He seems surprised. “Oh. Yes. Hm.” He might even be cracking a smile. You like to keep people on their toes. 

Your counterparts are two large and robust clowns who smell to the high heavens of herb. When you and Qartzi approach them, they seem to be mumble rapping and doing some kind of intricate fist bump ritual. None of this is surprising. This is exactly the kind of whimsical nonsense you experienced with Gamzee. You think of him, briefly. That perhaps he is in this very room. You would like to hope so. Dying before the ordeals would be so … pathetic. A fate underserved for such a strange idiot. You think of Karkat too, for one brief moment, but you cannot think of him for him. Not in front of these people, and certainly not in front of the Subjuggulator who has just executed a troll for heresy. 

“Oh shizz,” says of your new clowns, interrupting your train of sentimental thought. “If it ain’t little and large.”

Qartzi bristles beside you. You show all your teeth and extend a hand. “If it isn’t large and larger!”

Your hand is taken and overlapped by a larger, stickier fist. It is shaken vigorously. You think Qartzi has just been forcibly chest-bumped. “Tiny, what have the heavens graced named you?”

“Pyrope, Terezi.”

“Tere-e-e-see!” This is said in unison. “Shit, I’m Iilyza and this here is Denesh.”

You keep your grin. “Qartzi, introduce yourself.”

He bristles, but nonetheless he straightens and extends a hand. “Lucias Qartzi,” says he, all business. A useless endeavour; the only business these clowns take seriously as far as you can tell, are faygo and murder. You hear the crunch of bones, as Qartzi is pulled into another crushing hug. It’s all very heart-warming, and makes you all the more anxious. The mix of smells is starting to build tension in your head, and you can feel that the room is only filling more. 

“What,” you say, a little terse, “are we waiting for?”

“Sister, ain’t we got just as much a clue as you?” 

“Nah, Lilz, we’re up and waiting on that teal blooded bitch to get back with the righteous word.” 

You elbow Qartzi in his rib. “Do you see any Legislacerators? The stench of sweat is like acid fog. All I can smell is Faygo and greenery.” 

Qartzi smells tense, too. You have that in common at least. “Two, conversing by the exit. There are three subjuggulators. It seems they have stopped admitting cadets for the, hm, moment.”

“This shit be tighter than a Threshecutioners nook,” says Denesh. You hear a soft thud; a fist bump. 

“Quite,” says Qartzi, sounding terse. You’d be in better spirits, you think, if you had been eased into all this noise. Years alone has not prepared you for the onslaught on your senses. “Another legislacerator has entered,” says Qartzi, voice low. “She has some sort of large box. She and Bezbet are talking.”

You nod. Silence begins to fall over the crowd. With it, your other senses begin to clear; you have a better ear, a better nose. It takes a few moments, but you hear the clink of heels soon enough. The thump of something heavy hitting the ground. 

“Good evening, cadets,” she says, smelling like — something new. Books. Ink. The acidity scent of chemicals. “I am Prosecutor Fulher. In this box you will deposit your strife specibi for mandatory inspection. Mr. Bezbet will hand you the appropriate labelling in a moment; ensure you fill them out correctly. They will be returned to you within approximately three days. If they fail, you will be granted a state approved replacement on a first come first serve basis.” Your fingers tighten around your cane. “My Neophyte’s will direct all relevant caste-coloured trolls to your quarters, where you will find your mandatory schedules. Subjuggulators will do the same. As per tradition, you will spend half a sweep sharing close quarters with your competition to sharpen your senses. After which, you will spend a sweep with your caste-counterparts for co-operation and culture training. All those who pass will move forward to further schooling and placements.”

The silence persists. She clears her throat. “I will say this only once: the culling of your fellow cadets is strictly prohibited during the first sweep and will be considered unlawful. I do not give a fuck how annoying your hivemates are! Suck it up. Now — for fuck sake, Bezbet, are you asleep?” You hear a thud. A kick, you think. “Hand out those labels. Neophyte’s pick up your maps.” 

Everything becomes motion again. You are handed a label, and you take the chance to sniff Bezbet up close, good and proper. You’re not sure about his vibes; in fact, the vibes are fucking chaotic all around you right now. “Qartzi,” you hiss. “Give me your pen.” 

“You don’t have -- oh, hm. I suppose you wouldn’t. I’ll fill yours in --” You have already begun to lick the page, mapping out each letter with your tongue. You hear a hell yeah, and ignore it. “Ah. I suppose that does seem, hm, on brand for you.” 

You grin. You fill out your label with it pressed to Qartzi’s back. Under other, you put: 1 N33D 4 R3PL4C3M3NT! You’re not sure if this will be enough, so you begin making your way to the front, elbowing everyone out of your way as you go. “Excuse me,” you say loudly to Prosecutor Fulher, who has remained close next to the box. Nothing. “Excuse me,” you say louder, tapping your cane onto the floor. 

“Yes, cadet?” is your weary response. 

“This is my strife specibus,” you say, tapping the cane again. You can feel some eyes on you.

“And?”

You also feel weary. “I’m blind.” 

There is a long pause, and you feel her coming closer to you. Face to face, eyes raking over you. You have begun to clench your fist, crumpling your soggy label. “So you are. You still have to deposit the cane.” 

“That’s fine,” you say, your patience nearing its limit. “I need a replacement in the meantime.”

Another pause follows. She nods. “Prisma, Xoloto uses canekind, doesn’t he?”

“Yes m’am.”

“Great, get this cadet a fucking cane.” 

You can hear the quick increase of Prisma’s heart; thumpthumpthump thumpthumpTHUMP. You have no fucking idea who Xoloto is, but: “Y-Yes m’am! Right away!” You get the impression that he might be popular.

“Come back right away, too,” and this is somehow even more weary. “These fucking kids, I have no idea what they see in that overblown windbag.” 

“His ass” says the other neophyte. “Not to mention his ti-”

“That’s quite fucking enough. Cadet, go back to your group and wait in line.”

The grind of your teeth is like metal clanking in your ears. You nod with a soft yes m’am and do as your told. You will have to do plenty of this now, you remind yourself. Doing as your told, that is. You follow the smell of Qartzi and your purple-blooded companions, tapping your cane down with some finality. “We’re going to the back of the line,” you say. 

“Shit sis, why do we gotta up and do a thing like that?” 

You take your cane and you jam it into Iilyza’s wretched clown shoe. “Because I’m not leaving here with my replacement cane.” They do not question you again.

-

Your replacement cane is a little taller than you’re used to. It’s nothing you can’t work with, though. After you and Qartzi have been taken your new quarters, you both decide you should eat. You would like, actually, some time alone to process, but your guts are screaming for food and you would, if possible, like to get used to the larger crowds as soon as can be. This is a weakness you must kill quickly and without mercy; you will never survive if not. 

The mess hall, you assume, can only be called as such because it is a mess. It’s clear from the moment you and Qartzi both step inside that it is frequented more so by your subjuggulator-to-be cadet-mates. The smell of sugary syrup does nothing to overpower the smell of paint and sweat. The noise is louder, and you can tell there’s more trolls here now than in your brief induction. Qartzi has taken to describing things for you, which you do appreciate to some degree. You think he might grow on you, and that it will be a shame to beat him in the upcoming ordeals. 

He describes the throes of trolls intermingling; purple bloods gathered in larger groups if they aren’t spread out. At the food counter, he describes things that do not smell familiar, which is most of the items. “Some of them,” he explains, “are alien foods from the alien worlds which Her Condescension has conquered. She likes -- sugar. I’ve heard.” 

You find that amusing. 

You sit beside some other teal bloods, all of whom take some interest in your cane and your bright red glasses. You are only half paying attention; in the chaos of lunch hour, you can smell a familiar grapefruit purple. It is sopor-laced and smells like the vacant void of nothingness. You feel a swell of longing for a friend; someone who knows you. That is, the you that you are now, before you have to become the you that will serve the empire. You would like to be this Terezi a little longer, if possible. Just for a few more hours, at least. You interrupt a pretty troll talking about her filing system and tug on Qartzi’s cuff. “Is there a troll close by,” you say, sniffing to judge the distance. “Who looks like a kicked bark-beast left by the wayside?” 

You can feel Qartzi’s confusion. “Excuse me?”

The rigid downturn of your mouth stretches into a tense smile. “His sign is Capricorn. He undoubtedly smells disgusting and looks worse. Do you see him? I can’t pick him out; they all smell like fucking faygo and green.”

“Yes, that would be because they are all drinking faygo and smoking green,” says Qartzi, completely unhelpfully. He turns slightly, and you hope it’s to look around for your smelly friend, with his dopey smile and uncharacteristically gentle nature. 

“Did you say Capricorn,” says the pretty troll, with a voice that is faux-sweet. “That’s the sign of the Grand Highblood, isn’t it Lucias?” She sounds conversationally smug, like knowing this has somehow made her privy to some juicy gossip. 

“I wouldn’t know,” says Qartzi, irritation ebbing its way into his tone. “I read only the relevant information pertaining to his cult activity and his body count.” You would like to see his temper one day. Not right now, however. Right now you need him. 

“I did my research,” she says. You feel her eyes on you. “Is he a friend of yours? He’ll have big shoes to fill. Quite literally! The Grand Highblood is said to be as tall as the Empress herself, some say even taller. And of course,” she says, lowering her voice and leaning closer. “There is such high expectations for those who share a sign with high ranking officers. Naturally.” 

You flash her your teeth. “Who shares your sign -- sorry, I’ve forgotten your name!”

“Pearla,” she says, less smug. “My sign is --” 

“Over there, Pyrope,” Qartzi interrupts. “I think I see him amidst that, hm, congregation over by the faygo dispenser. Tall, horns turned upright? His sign is Capricorn, at the, hm, very least.” 

“Wonderful. Qartzi, guard my grubloaf. I will be back!” You might not be back, but that doesn’t actually matter. You can’t take it back with you. For now, you detangle yourself from your seated position and begin walking the way Qartzi directed you to. The smell is stronger, but the closer you get the harder it is to distinguish from the others. Once among them, you knock their ankles with your cane, which is dangerous, you suppose, but you doubt any will incur the wrath of your superiors. “Gentletrolls, you say,” with all your teeth dazzling sharp and your maw wide. “I’m looking for --”

“Oh bless my motherfucking eyes,” you hear and your head turns sharply. You feel stupid with sentimentality. “Bless ‘em fucking blind.” His voice is thick with drugs; a slur to it that is reminiscent of how he types. God, you are very glad to be hearing him rather than licking the ugly sing-song tone of his trollian text.

“Mr. Makara!” is all you say before you are taken into his arms, lifted at least a foot off the ground and held tight. He smells terrible; rank with sopor and green. You smell the rancid stretch of his grin, the harsh nasty breath of his laugh. You have never been more glad to see him. When he places you back onto the ground, you wrap your arms around his middle and realise he has become very tall. “You survived,” you breath, extremely surprised. “I was certain you would be culled on the spot for trying to hand out flower crowns or some such other nonsense!”

“Shit,” he says, voice awed and wistful. “Don’t all got many flowers at the beach, sister. You motherfuckers up and got a flower crown for my sharpest of bitches here?” There is a collective whooping no. They all seem to have their eyes on you both, as though the flagrant display of friendship between two different blooded trolls is a novelty. Perhaps it is. You have no idea how these clowns have lived their lives until now. “Sorry, bitchtits, I ain’t got none of that for you.” 

“Oh,” you say, unable to help your grin. You hold him at arm's length, your cane snapping against his calf. “Shut up you blistering moron. I’m very glad you weren’t culled for being stupid! Who is making sure it stays that way?” 

You smell him grin again. He nods his head leftways, stupid with adoration. “My brother over there. Give her the wicked word, Malrez. Teach this bitty lawmaker the righteous vocals of who you’re up and being.” 

Malrez smells about the same, with a voice like silver. He sounds like a charm caster, words spilling from his mouth like perfectly recited slam poetry. He promises to whip Gamzee into shape, and you want to be grateful of that. You want your friend to survive this long, arduous ordeal. But there is something in the shape of his lazy, half-formed smirk; something in the way he forms the words: “baby girl, I got his back and I got his schooling all right here, you don’t got a single worry to be labourin’ over in that pretty head of yours,” that has your hackles raised to alarm. “The Mirthful Church take care of our own,” he says and you realise, quite suddenly, that you are not only surrounded by newblood cadets: you are in the midst of a large and ravenous pack. 

You let Gamzee go and you straighten yourself up. You make yourself look less like prey, and when you say your goodbyes, Gamzee kisses your cheeks sloppy and affectionate. You are still thinking about Malrez when you slip into your ‘coon, later; still thinking about the half-adoring grin you could smell on Gamzee’s stupid, naive face. When you sleep, you think you dream of laughter. 

-

In the early hours of the evening, your ship takes off from port. Yours and several others launch into the air into orbit. As the sun goes down, you feel the vibrations of the ships thrusters under your feet; you hear the distant screech of the helmsmen below deck and you find yourself trying to ignore it. Qartzi sleeps beside you, snoring gently as the very last rays of pink moon light brushes by your window. 

It feels strange to be leaving. There is an odd finality in all of this, as much as there is uncertainty. You miss your tree-hive already, although you’ve barely been gone twenty-hours. You miss the smell of Alternia’s flora and the distant rumblings of the fauna. You did not think that you would be a homesick troll, but here you are sulking quite brazenly about all that you have left behind. You watch the stars and Alternia fades into the distance, and when it’s nothing more than a spec on the infinite black of space, barely even worthy of a sniff, you roll over in your recuperacoon and stretch out your legs. You reach for your palm husk, where a notification has been waiting for yours.

> TA: we made iit iin 2peak 2oon
> 
> gallowsCalibrator is no longer idle! 
> 
> CG: M3 TOO >:]  
>  CG: 1 4SSUM3 4LL W3NT 4CCORD1NG TO PL4N! V3RY GOOD WORK  
>  CG: ST4Y FOCUS3D   
>  CG: 4ND YOU C4N T3LL K4RK4T TH4T 3V3N G4MZ33 H4S SURV1V3D TH1S 4RDUOUS JOURN3Y! M1R4CL3S 4R3 R34L 4FT3R 4LL >:]  
>  CG: K33P M3 UPD4T3D
> 
> gallowsCallibrator has ceased trolling twinArmegeddons 

You do not like sharing a respiteblock, but Qartzi is an orderly roommate. His things are neatly packed away from your own chaotic disorder. You did not bring much, but you have plans on how to decorate this drab, grey room with your chalk. Soon, is your mantra.

After you have stretched, you clamber out of your recuperacoon and decide to occupy the ablution block before your snoring partner wakes up. You certainly will not be waking him up, of course. Not unless you think it might be funny to hit him over the head with your new, shiny gold and purple cane. You entertain yourself with that thought while you scrub and then dress for the day in your new uniform. It smells wonderful; teal and grey, with a space for you to stitch in your sign. When you put it on, you feel important. You feel dignified, and powerful. In the brief euphoria of dressing properly, you momentarily forget your trepidation's. They are smoke above you as you run your hands over the cut of the cloth, the collar and the hard leather of your boots and gloves. 

When you step out into your respiteblock again, you are grinning ear to ear. You look at Qartzi’s sleeping form, chin deep in sopor and his arm hanging useless over the recuperacoon, and you cackle, loud and shrill before you crack your cain down onto his hanging hand. 

Naturally, he is absolutely furious with you for the rest of the day. You accept that, of course. You are proud of it, even. You both have to be your very best in this brave new world, you tell him as he nurses his hand on your way to your first assigned duties of the day. 

You and your purple-blooded counterparts are not paired together for the first day; in fact, there is not a purple-blood to be seen until lunch. In the early evening, you sit and you begin your first lessons in a space devoid of colour. It is white and sterile; you can smell cleaning chemicals, you can hear the whirring of organised deskhusks, and in between these two things, you listen to the soft, idle mutterings of your classmates. Gossip; anxieties; the quiet insecurities of being in such close quarters with some of the finest Legislacerators the empire has to offer. You could see yourself doing this, one day, after riding the glory of your career to its very end. 

Your teacher is old, after all. You can smell the wrinkles on her face, can hear the way her bones creak together as she takes centre stage. You can smell the faint smell of slow decay, masked by perfume and layers of teal and red leather. She walks with a cane too, and you hear command the attention of the masses with a loud, whopping crack to the centre of her podium. Every back in the room straightens with frightened immediacy. You are not immune. 

She surveys you all with silence; you feel eyes on you, and you think she must be doing the same to every face in the room. Memorising, or predicting who will make it and who will end up as labourers aboard ships like this instead. Eventually, she speaks. “Cadets,” she says, voice like sandpaper. “It pleases me to see so many faces this term. To begin, which of you can tell me what is unusual about this years recruitment process?”

There is a soft quiet among you. You find yourself frowning, and beside you, Qartzi breathes in sharp. You feel his arm move, and turn to him, out of instinct. 

“Your name?”

“Qartzi, m’am.” 

“Inform us.” 

You hear him suck in a breath. “You came to us?”

You smile her grin; teeth sharp, smile like acid. “Are you asking me or telling me?” 

He falters. “You came to us. Ordinarily, we are sorted by drones and sent off-world to designated ships or colonies.” 

“And what is unusual about that, cadet Qartzi?”

You understand, now. The excitement of this day, and the whirlwind of all that it entails has made you temporarily foolhardy, you realise. But you understand now. Your face is turned to Qartzi, a begrudging respect forming. “Adults are not permitted on Alternia, m’am,” he says.

“That is correct,” she says, and you realise that she has not given you a name. As though each troll in the room is expected to know her. Maybe the do; perhaps, even in the most chaotic of your preparations, you missed this detail. “Adult trolls have not been permitted to step foot onto Alternia’s soil for approximately six hundred sweeps. Yet, here we are. We are entering a new era, cadets, and you are the first of us to experience it.”

On your lap, your hands have balled into fists. Your mind is racing, a thousand thoughts going a mile. Why did the Empress come home? Why have the adults come for you? Something, you realise, as you stare ahead, has changed. Something has happened. You lean in to Qartzi and feel him incline his head towards you. “Psst,” you say, as quietly as you can. “What is her name?”

He hesitates. “Lieutenant Paadma,” he says, so quiet you almost struggle to hear. He is avoiding her notice again, you think. You understand completely. “She is the oldest of our caste to remain in active duty. Her record is impeccable.” 

You nod. She’s speaking again. “History changes with us in this room. Together, we are tasked with ushering in a new path for our empire, with new opportunities laid out before us.” she says. “What will you do with this destiny?” 

You have no idea. 

-

The caves speak. They speak with the voices of ghosts, the dampness lingering in the air like the threadbare fingertips of those who once occupied them. The walls have been stained for hundreds of years, and the blood has faded only slightly. He remembers these caves, from when the mirthful church walked the streets of Alternia hunting down heretics and rebels, subjugating lowbloods in the name of their gods. He remembers the screams echoing against the stone walls, after the lowbloods had taken to hiding in them. Heresy of the finest order; these caves had once belonged to your predecessors, when the church was frowned upon and your numbers few. 

The Grand Highblood has been old for a very long time, and he had been old enough then too. His fingers, clawed and covered in gold, gently trace over the faded marks. Older ones from the first of your kind to hold sermon here. Heretical drawings from lowbloods who worshipped a troll with blood as red as your god. The sweeps have been long, and they have been unforgiving. The end had been promised in visions; one vast and endless glub to snuff all the mother fuckers out in one blink. The will of mirthful messiahs, and yet here he stands, crouched over and heaving in the dark. 

When he falls to his knees, it is loud. When he weeps, it is loud too. Never in his long, long life, has he had a crisis of faith. Never in his sweeps handing out the righteous justice of his kin, has he felt lost. With his hands over his eyes, he drags his grease paint down in streaks. “What,” he wails to the dark, “the motherfuck am I supposed to be all doin’ now? What is the path that I and our kind and all the motherfuckers who still be wigglers, are supposed to up and take?” 

He has come for clarity, and what he receives is silence. He receives silence for a long while, even when he prays and whispers to the dark. The voices have gone silent; the ghosts have stopped whispering, and when he opens his eyes, the cave has filled with light. Red, blue, red blue — the blinding hue of psionics greets him when he turns. When he sees her, he could weep. When he sees her, he could kiss her. When he sees her, he could club his own head in for doubting. He knows her at once. Visions upon visions has he seen her in this life and the last. 

“Harbinger,” he says, on his knees. “Demon. Handmaiden of our God. Do you bring the news? Do you bring the motherfucking buzz of what it is I am supposed to do?” 

“No,” she says, voice cold. “The timeline has fractured. There are no orders left for you, Grand Highblood Kurloz. There is no path left to take that is right or wrong.” 

Doomed, he thinks. He has been doomed. He understands this, from memories and dreams of a life which was his and not his. Visions he has seen all his life and learned to use. “Then why the fuck,” he wheezes, grief stricken and furious. “Have you come?”

She reaches for him, fingertips like ice against his forehead. “I thought we might have something in common, in this life. I am still uncertain.”

Outside there is movement. Ships leaving in the distance. Lowbloods closing in on this place the way they always do. He gazes upon her, eyes dulling and rage simmering. A calm settling into his core that he has not felt since the first vision of his own demise. “We serve,” he says. “Ain’t that enough?” 

“No,” she says. “I was supposed to do something here. Perhaps you might do it in my place. Perhaps not. Your life is yours to do with how you please. Serve, still. Or don’t. He is no longer interested. This timeline serves him no purpose.” She removes her hand and turns. On his knees, he follows her to the cave opening. The moon’s shine bright; pink and green, and in the distance, the Imperial ship of the Empress looms. “She will stay here,” the Handmaiden says, quite softly. “But not for much longer.”

The Revelation hits him at once. He understands; perhaps he has understood since the first tsunami of rage hit him after he lived. There is a choice to make; a path before him split into two cross-sections. Duality feels like home. It feels like a familiar friend after a long walk alone in the pits of the dark. The choice is his to ruminate on, and to make, and to enforce. At last, his mouth stretches into a wide and ugly grin. On his knees, he takes her hands and kisses each of her knuckles. “Prophet,” he whispers. “Diviner. Unholy abomination of our master. I see.”

No, she thinks. No, you do not. This truth matters now. The Grand Highblood rises again, towering over her and taking up the entire maw of the cave. The noise of trolls coming closer grows louder, and in a movement he hast taken out his ceremonial clubs. She looks at him; at his face, which is almost recognisable with the face paint of the Mirthful Church. For a moment, she sees him younger, painted in bones. He grins at her, and she imagines the way his mouth would look sewn shut. His voice is ragged now. The dissonance of two lives is nauseating, for a moment, and so she leaves, before the smell of blood can do the same. 

Waiting for her is Aradia with her body, watching the ships leave the planet one by one. From a distance, the sight is very beautiful. Aradia turns to her, white eyes curious. The Handmaiden, with her own eyes flashing blue-red-blue, crouches to take the body into her arms. The loop closes one step at a time, she reminds herself. One piece in front of the other. “It’s time to go.”


End file.
